


Struck

by syrupwit



Series: lightning strikes! [1]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Dib Has Issues (Invader Zim), Dib is Of Legal Age (Invader Zim), Explicit Sexual Content, High School, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mental Health Issues, Post-Invader Zim: Enter the Florpus, Suicidal Thoughts, Xeno, alien flower genitalia, literal sex pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 09:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21195077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Someone's a little obsessed. (Or: Zim goes into heat, Dib notices, and everybody makes mistakes.)





	Struck

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my betas, malatruse and Cyristal_Artist, and to everyone on the Discord for their help and encouragement. ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> An excerpt from a draft of this story was first [posted anonymously](https://fail-fandomanon.dreamwidth.org/388976.html?thread=2286108272#cmt228) on Fail_Fandomanon.
> 
> I'm trying this out without an archive lock, but I reserve the right to lock if I feel it is necessary.

Among the many qualities Dib Membrane can be said to exhibit, self-awareness is far from paramount. A kind observer may merit that Dib is, at least, conscious of his lack of self-awareness; a less generous one might note that this consciousness extends little further than the lack, and that Dib’s efforts to remedy said lack have to date been negligible. Then the two observers would probably turn to blows, because everyone knows that is the appropriate method to solve arguments.

Bearing this in mind, both hypothetical observers will be forced to agree that—as he stands at his nemesis’s doorstep, pulse ticking double-time in clammy fists, backpack stuffed with weapons and contraceptives, stomach churning with a mix of nausea and arousal—Dib is, for once, well and truly aware that he is in trouble.

* * *

**APPROXIMATELY ONE WEEK AGO**

It begins on a May afternoon about a month before high school graduation, in that bright, brief, blessed corridor between the mud of late spring and the gloom of early summer. The sun is out, the breeze is fresh, and the sports fields are burgeoning with invasive flowering weeds destined to be crushed and mutilated under tomorrow’s lawn mower. In short, it’s a beautiful day.

Ms. Bitters is out sick, likely due to the pleasant weather. The substitute covering her fourth period senior Geography class has the approximate willpower and constitution of a wet paper towel, so it only takes a few cajolements from the louder voices to persuade him to take instruction outside. He doesn’t seem much older than the students; the teacher shortage must be getting dire. That Ms. Bitters hasn’t retired yet is corroborating evidence, though Gretchen maintains—jokingly, now—that her insect queen theory can account for the fact.

Gretchen has turned out to be pretty alright, particularly since she mostly got over her crush (Dib doesn’t know that she had one) and started treating Dib like a person as opposed to her own favorite cryptid. Dib and Gretchen don’t sit next to each other in Geography, but there are no seating assignments on the lawn. The substitute wouldn’t know anyway.

They’re engaged in idle conversation about the latest TruthShrieker forum controversy. Gretchen makes clover chains as she talks; Dib fiddles with a loose thread on his trenchcoat with one hand and gestures for emphasis with the other. Then Zim runs by at top speed, screeching his little green head off.

“Jeez, what’s his problem?” Gretchen cranes her neck to watch Zim get lost in the maze of portable classrooms at the other end of the field.

“It’s probably bees. He’s terrified of bees.” Dib is annoyed to be cut off mid-rant about his grievances with the TruthShrieker mods’ new ban policy. Gretchen doesn’t get it; she’s a perma-lurker, too shy to post anon even if she has something to say. Dib has lived in namespace for too long. The most recent incarnation of his TruthShrieker handle, _ xx_Ag3nt_M0thman_xx_, is on its third strike, and he only has a handful of sock accounts left.

“I haven’t seen any bees lately. I kind of thought we didn’t have them any more.” Gretchen frowns in the direction Zim vanished. “Do you think it’s wasps?”

Dib’s battle with the vampire bees ended sophomore year, and they’ve abided by the terms of their treaty since. If normal bees have been eradicated from the area, he doesn’t know it. “Nah, Zim’s good with wasps. They’re like his freaky bug kindred. Man, Gretchen, I was saying though—”

There’s a sharp _ bang_, followed by a “Ha!” Zim limps out triumphantly from behind the portable classrooms.

“Stupid Earth insects,” they hear him exclaim. “Zim wins again!”

“It’s so weird that he still refers to himself in the third person,” Gretchen comments.

“Everything about Zim is weird. That’s because—”

“He’s an alien. I know.” Gretchen smiles at Dib like they’re sharing a joke. He’s watching Zim and doesn’t notice. “Anyway, what was that about VPNs?”

The day is really too pleasant. If there weren’t patches of damp in the grass, Dib would stretch out on his back and bask in the sunshine. He doesn’t even like sunshine. There’s just something about this afternoon. It could be the clouds or the wind or the honey-blunt scent of clover, the heat seeping down through the earth. It makes it hard to care about things, easy to lose himself in sensation. Maybe it’s nothing.

There won’t be many more days like this.

Fifth period ebbs into lunch with nary a bullet point on Ms. Bitters’ lesson plan touched. Gretchen has a club or something, so she’s off. Dib lingers on his way to the cafeteria, considering whether to track Zim down. He has questions about the prototype trout detector he’d discovered when he broke into Zim’s base last weekend. Why does Zim need to detect trout? They’re at least a hundred miles away from the nearest freshwater habitat! The registrar still hasn’t fixed his grades from last semester, though, and the registrar’s office is only open from 10:00 to 2:00. So that might take priority.

Apparently a lot of kids are having issues with the registrar. Dib arrives to find a line around the corner—whoops, no, the other corner—and a hapless freshman aide handing out numbered tickets like at the DMV. Dib’s ticket says “497Z.” Maybe the numbers are randomly generated?

“12A,” someone calls, and distant cheers go up.

“Finally!” a kid cries. “I can sleep! It’s been three days...”

Dib’s stomach growls, and he thinks of the granola bar at the bottom of his backpack. He shouldn’t risk it. Although they don’t personally adhere to the same rule, the office staff are strict about food indoors.

He lets his mind wander instead. There's no shortage of topics to dwell on: the grades he needs to fix, college applications he needs to finish, final projects for various classes, paranormal stuff, whatever Zim is up to. Most of Dib's school life up to this point has felt like endless, relentless tedium; it’s been a whole lot busier lately, if no less repetitive. Everyone around him seems to ping-pong between the lethargy of “senioritis” and the existential terror of existential terror. Half his classmates know exactly what awaits them after graduation, and the other half are still scrambling to figure it out.

Dib hasn’t decided what he’s going to do. His dad has expressed support for two equally appealing options: interning at his lab and attending his alma mater. Both would require a promise to focus on Real Science. Dib could dodge it and go to a community college, but his dad wants a five-year plan for that if he’s going to fund it. He could forget about college altogether and go straight into the non-Membrane Labs workforce, but the opportunities available to a guy fresh out of high school with a resume consisting of a handful of fast food jobs and _ Mysterious Mysteries _guest appearances are meager, to say the least. So he’s kind of stuck.

Dib is aware that he’s better off than a lot of his classmates. Torque Smackey, for example, got kicked out on his eighteenth birthday and has been living with Keef’s family since. Gretchen got into her dream college, but can’t afford it, even with loans. Melvin filed his FAFSA incorrectly and will have to spend the next five years with the Student Debt Revenge Corps. Dirge’s webbed toes disqualified him from a swimming scholarship. Zim is Zim, with less support from his evil empire since the whole Florpus thing but still a walking disaster in his own right. All things considered, Dib has it easy.

Except, you know, for the part where he sometimes wants to kill himself. But he knows better than to talk about that.

(He’d tried to talk about it, once. His dad had sent him to a therapist after his eighth-grade math teacher discovered his alien autopsy doodles. The woman had listened with critical attention while Dib unburdened the depths of his soul. At the end of the hour, she had steepled her fingers, smiled, and asked if he had “considered just not being such a disturbing little freak.” He isn’t sure if that was better or worse than Dwicky, or than the school counselor after Dwicky, who interpreted Dib’s descriptions of his mental state as advanced-beyond-his-years metaphorical speech. “It feels like a black pit is going to swallow me whole” had not been a mature and considered expression of mortal anxiety, for fuck’s sake.)

Sudden audio feedback punctures Dib’s swelling daydream, which has progressed from bad memories to future worries to the plausibility of vampire trout (Would Zim do it? Could Zim do it? Should Zim do it? No, of course he shouldn’t) back to his TruthShrieker woes. The freshman aide sticks their head out of the office, clutching a megaphone in one hand and fending students back with the other.

“NO MORE! NO MORE TODAY!” The freshman’s amplified voice crackles ominously. “LUNCH IS ENDING! GET OUT… OR YOU’LL BE SORRY!”

The first bell rings to punctuate the announcement, and the office door slams shut on someone’s fingers. Great. Another lunch wasted, and now the other students are trying to rush the registrar’s office. Dib manages to slip out in the other direction from their makeshift battering ram. It’s a longer walk to his next class, but at least the day’s still nice.

He fishes the granola bar out of his backpack while he walks, sighing with the first furtive bite. It’s not much, but it will calm his stomach for now. The route he’s taking is less traveled, out of the main drag of students. He passes an unlabeled administrative building that is rumored to house the service entrance to the underground classrooms, and slips behind a gate.

From there, he accesses a stepping stone path secluded by low trees. It’s one of those features that had to have existed before this place became a school site, or else was meant for staff and faculty use only. It’s too nice to have been made for students. The grass here is thicker, longer, mixed with more weeds. Dib stuffs the granola bar wrapper in his backpack. He’ll throw it away later.

He reaches a tool shed and stops in his tracks.

“I told you already, GIR. It’s not working!” Zim’s agitated voice filters through the trees. Dib crouches, peering around the shed, and gets slammed in the face with an acrid chemical scent.

Zim paces as he talks into his communicator, gesturing with a canister of bug spray. Several additional canisters lie about his feet. The spray is so thick in the air that Dib can practically see it. He pulls his coat over his nose and mouth to breathe.

_ What are you up to? _he wonders. His eyes water. There’s a gas mask in his backpack somewhere—he always carries one now, after that incident in ninth grade with the explosive popcorn—but it would be hard to access without alerting Zim to his presence. Okay, that does it; next item on the Dib Membrane invention agenda is a zipperless backpack.

Unfortunately, Zim chooses that moment to discharge more bug spray, and Dib can’t help but sneeze.

“Agh! Who’s there!” Zim whips around, flinging away both objects he’s carrying in the process.

Dib runs. He doesn’t think he can escape without further detection; he just needs to get some distance from the cloud of bug spray.

“You won’t get away with this, Zim!” he shouts over his shoulder.

Zim catches him a little ways down the path. A tentacle shoots out and wraps around Dib’s ankle, and he trips. Zim yanks Dib’s backpack to the side, flips Dib onto his back, and pins him with those crazy spider legs. He looms over Dib, glaring. There is, as usual, murder in his eyes.

Dib talks fast. “What’s with the bug spray, huh? Huh? Did another experiment get out of control? What’s with the bees, Zim? You know I’ll find out. Baron von Honeyschmerz won’t be happy if you’re violating the terms of the treaty. We’re going to bring you to justice, Zim.” He stops to take a breath and frowns, sniffing.

“What’s that smell?” Beneath the chemical reek, there’s a conspicuous floral scent, wavering and delicate but still somehow evident.

“What smell?”

“I swear, there’s…” Dib sniffs again. “You smell flowers, right?”

Horror seizes Zim’s face for a split second, masked quickly by blankness. “No.”

“Are you… wearing an experimental perfume or something? Is that why bees were chasing you?”

“You make no sense, Dib-monkey.”

“I mean, it’s fine if you are. It doesn’t smell _ bad _—kinda strong, but—”

“Shut up! Shut your ugly mouth!” Zim picks up one of his legs and slams it down again, right next to Dib’s ear.

“Jeez. Sorry I complimented your chemical weapon or disastrous bee attractor or whatever.”

“Get away, _ Dib_.” Zim still looks unusually panicked, his eyes darting from Dib’s face to his body to the grass and back again.

“You are literally holding me down right now,” Dib argues.

Zim seems to consider this. He considers it while the final bell rings, signaling the beginning of fifth period. Then he laughs, heartily enough that Dib can tell he’s truly uncomfortable. “So I am. GET UP.”

And he actually lets Dib up.

“Uh...” Dib rubs at the flecks of alien saliva on his face, uncertain of what to say.

“Don’t think Zim has shown you mercy. Your doom is close, human! Close like the breath of a moose!” Zim rears back on his legs. “I have unfinished business in the classroom.” Then he’s skittering away as fast as the things can carry him, leaping over the shed to retrieve his communicator.

Huh.

That was weird.

* * *

Dib escapes being marked late because the Art History teacher’s back is turned. He slides into the seat next to Gaz, snags a handful from the open bag of candy hidden under her textbook, and starts getting out his notebooks.

“You owe me five bucks for that,” says Gaz, not looking up from the phone in her lap.

“I didn’t get lunch.”

“Six bucks.”

“Okay, class, let’s get started!” Miss Pingle claps her hands. Miss Pingle is a scorned idealist. She had wanted to teach supplementary fine art to elementary schoolers, but the program got cut. Now she swans around in tassel shawls, cracking bad jokes and teaching too close to the textbook. Every few weeks she has a breakdown about her students’ ungratefulness and makes them do yoga in the dark until she calms down. For some reason, she loves Gaz.

Today’s agenda is a review for their upcoming exam. Dib zones out, doodling in the margins of his notebook. He doesn’t realize he’s drawn Zim until Gaz adds a heart in violet gel pen over the drawing.

“Hey,” Dib hisses, and she raises her eyebrows at him. Her own paper is filled with her neat, cramped handwriting. Gaz has unparalleled fine motor control. Dib admires it, but only expresses that admiration in the form of pointed comments about carpal tunnel. It’s a sibling thing.

Dib flips to a new page in his notebook. _ Zim was doing something weird today, _he writes, and pushes the notebook toward Gaz.

_ That’s not interesting_, Gaz writes back. _ Zim does weird things every day. _

_ I swear he’s up to something big this time. Something with bees. _

_ Did you hit your head again? The Baron would be swarming our windows 24/7 if anything disturbed the truce. Zim was probably just being an idiot as usual. _

_ This was different! We were fighting and he just STOPPED. He had me pinned and let me get away. _

_ TMI, did not need to know about your foreplay. _The upturned corner of Gaz’s mouth is as enraging as a full-on smirk.

Dib’s reply is disrupted by the arrival of the freshman office aide, who now sports scorch marks and a bandage over one eye. A hush falls over the class as the aide approaches Miss Pingle. Without a word, they hand her a large envelope from the stack balanced in their arms, and leave as quietly as they came.

“What is…” Miss Pingle frowns, investigating the envelope’s contents. “Oh! Good news everyone, we got this month’s Crazy Cards. Just don’t use them on me, ha ha.”

“I can’t believe we still have those,” whispers Dib to Gaz.

“Well, you’re kind of the reason we need them.”

“Shut up, Gaz!”

“Did you have a comment, Dib?” Miss Pingle trains her gaze on him, her smile bright and brittle. His classmates watch, ears perked for the promise of a showdown between the school’s angriest teacher and their least favorite peer.

“No, I was just asking to borrow a pen.” Dib grabs the gel pen, ignoring Gaz’s stifled shriek of fury.

_ You’ll see! _ he writes. _ Someday you’ll ALL see. _

Gaz steals her pen back and stabs him with it.

* * *

After school, Zim is nowhere to be found. Dib chats distractedly with Gretchen at the bus stop and is terse during his carpool with Gaz. At home, he heads straight upstairs to check the camera feeds from Zim’s base, but they’ve all been cut off. Again.

Dib could, conceivably, let it go. He could do homework or get into an internet fight. He could tinker with his backpack zippers or obsess about his outstanding college admissions. He could engage in any number of activities that have nothing to do with whatever stupid plot Zim’s hatching.

Ah, who is he kidding? Dib never lets anything go.

* * *

From the outside, Zim’s base looks much as always. The tattered “I <3 EARTH” flag sulks limply on its pole, and the garden gnomes swivel to track Dib as he approaches the entryway. He tries the front door, and it… opens?

Something’s wrong.

The main room is dim, lit only by the glow of television static. The monkey’s eyes seem to watch Dib as he steps inside. Both Zim and his robot dog are absent. Recalling hard-won lessons of the past, Dib scans the air for Minimoose, but that mysterious personage is nowhere to be found.

“Hello? Hello-o? Alien scum?”

Dib pokes his head around the corner, peering into the kitchen. It’s empty. The adjoining hall, and the bathroom, are empty as well.

There’s a faint, lingering scent throughout the place. If Dib didn’t recognize it from earlier today, he would assume that Zim was experimenting with air freshener. He’s recalculating the likelihood that this whole thing is a trap when Zim falls from the ceiling.

“Bzuh?” says Dib, but Zim just dusts himself off and walks past him, into the kitchen. The ceiling panel seals and retracts. Zim is humming. Something is definitely wrong.

“Um, Zim?”

“Dib-thing,” says Zim belatedly, and stops his humming. “Not a surprise to see you here. But don’t bother me with your… bothering, I have business to attend to.”

“Your business is my business, space boy.”

“Mm. No.” Zim wanders to inspect the sink, pulls something out of it, and regards it with distaste before flinging it into the trash. But he doesn’t object when Dib trails him into the living room. Something is very, very wrong.

Dib ventures, “Why are your pants off?”

Zim turns an aggrieved, unfocused gaze on Dib. One of his contacts is hanging off his face. “Why are YOUR pants ON?”

“Because I… Wait, what are you doing?” Dib watches in shock as Zim tears off his uniform tunic and tosses it to the side. The boots are the next to go, followed by gloves. Zim hops onto the couch and reclines like a tiny Roman emperor. Dib’s eyes are drawn—horribly, inexorably—to the shadow at the apex of his skinny thighs.

Zim scrubs a bare hand over his face dramatically. “Seven times a year, my superior race’s ancestors went through this degrading cycle. The true process is too complex for your barbaric human mind to grasp, but I am given to understand that the term ‘estrus’ or ‘heat’ approximates it in your language.” 

He crosses and uncrosses his legs, shifting to a more comfortable position; Dib feels dizzy. “Now, under normal circumstances Zim’s PERFECT body would never have to deal with this foolishness, but there has been… an error, and the technicians I would consult are all temporarily unavailable for some reason.”

Zim’s eyes narrow, his expression going distant. “It aches… Oh, how it aches. The tests so far demand a biological partner to dispel the ache. But no matter. Zim will triumph! This ordeal is nothing, NOTHING before Zim’s incredible will!”

Dib’s thoughts are going a mile a minute. “I still don’t know why you took your pants off.”

Zim exhales, brusque. “Let me show you.”

Never in Dib’s most bizarre dreams could he have imagined this scenario. He stays frozen in place, heart beating wildly, as his mortal enemy spreads his legs.

“Well? Zim commands you to look!”

Dib looks.

Barbed, waxy petals ring a circular opening, pulsing in time with an uncanny rhythm. It’s like rafflesia or a corpse flower, a pitcher plant or a Venus flytrap, bright and alluring and utterly strange. Dib wants to touch it.

“It’s beautiful,” he blurts out. It’s stupid. He said it anyway. He can’t tear his eyes from the structure, from Zim’s splayed thighs and naked skin.

He brings a shaky hand to Zim’s abdomen, for once allowing himself to be fascinated by the contrast of their skin, the way Zim’s hairless, poreless flesh shades subtly darker toward the groin. Hesitant, afraid to exhale, he brushes his knuckles against Zim’s stomach. As no explosion results, he dares to stroke Zim’s hip. His hand is wandering down to Zim’s knee when Zim grabs his wrist.

“Say that again,” Zim demands, the first he’s spoken in what feels like hours. There’s a note in his voice that Dib has never heard before.

“It’s so beautiful,” Dib says, honest, as queasy as he is aroused. Zim shuts his eyes, makes a clicking noise in his throat, and pushes Dib’s hand between his legs.

The petals trap him, bat at him. The place they guard is soft as velvet, slick as oil, hot as a rose in the sun. His fingers come away sticky with pollen, and the heady scent makes him gag.

* * *

It barely happened. It wasn’t anything. Dib can’t stop thinking about it.

Zim had pushed him away then, ranting about trials and Tallness and Dib’s supposed genetic inferiority, and gotten a red-eyed GIR to throw him out of the base. Red-eyed GIR is serious business; the gnomes are more aggressive when he directs them, too. Dib had run home with his trenchcoat still smoking from their combined barrage.

In a daze, he’d inhaled the rest of the leftover pizza—Gaz would throw a fit, but who cared—and showered, brushed his teeth, and dressed for bed, though it was only seven o’clock.

Dreams assailed him throughout the night, dashing themselves against his brain until nothing but fragments remained, a flotsam of disjointed images and ephemeral sensations. Through it all wound that smell, the strange thing blooming out of Zim, and with it an undeniable frisson of arousal… Gross.

* * *

Zim is going to drive him crazy. Now that Dib knows what’s happening, he can’t ignore it.

In the single class they share this semester, Math For Peons, Zim bargains 5% of his final grade for an extra bathroom pass. Dib can’t concentrate for the entire time he’s gone. His brain bombards him with scenarios of what might happen if he followed him. When Zim returns, jumpy and silent, Dib’s eyes can’t leave him for the rest of class. He agonizes over the light flush to Zim’s skin, just visible at the back of his neck.

Lunch, similarly, is torture. The campus has been transformed into a glorious wonderland of spring or whatever. Everything is warm and sunny and shiny, and it all smells like fucking Zim. Dib has to eat with his backpack over his lap, and he can’t keep track of the conversation. Gretchen, used to rapt attention from Dib when she talks about the ghost in her family’s basement, keeps shooting him puzzled looks.

In Art History, Gaz calls Dib out for doodling flowers. He can’t suppress his panic before she notices, and he has to scramble to invent some explanation that will lead her away from the truth. He didn’t even realize that he was drawing. This is_ embarrassing_.

At night, of course, there are more dreams. Vivid ones. Dib wakes up covered in sweat, among other things.

He has to do something.

* * *

The next day, Dib sprints halfway across campus to catch Zim leaving his fourth period classroom. He’s in luck; the class got out late, apparently, and Zim is trying to ditch Keef when Dib spots him.

“Zim! Hey, Zim!”

The little alien’s shoulders slump. “What do you want, meatbrain?” He shoves Keef away, growling at his cheerful farewell. Poor Keef. That boy loves Zim so much.

Dib says, “I’ve been thinking about what happened the other day—”

Zim cuts him off with a curt, “I haven’t.” He turns away and starts walking in the other direction. Dib hurries to keep up.

“Come on, just talk to me for a second, Zim—”

“Spare me the dookie that spews from your comically large mouth.”

“My mouth is not large,” Dib starts, then changes tack. “Look, I was thinking maybe I could help you?”

Zim stops in his tracks, causing Dib to stumble forward with momentum. He glares at Dib. “What?”

“I could help you, with the heat. If you need a biological partner to get through it, I… wouldn’t mind being that partner.” Dib can’t believe he’s actually saying this, but the words flow easily from his mouth.

“You dare make Zim beg for your aid?” Zim’s voice is high with indignation. There’s an intriguing tinge of color to his cheeks.

“No, no, I’m offering!” Dib puts his hands up, supplicating. “If you’re not interested, then that’s fine. I just thought I would offer.”

“And what makes you assume that Zim would accept help from you?”

_ I might be your only option_, Dib doesn’t say. He spies on Zim enough to know that the only other Irkens he’s contacted lately are customer service representatives and that guy Skoodge who lived in his basement for a while.

Instead, he says, “I don’t. It’s pure scientific curiosity. I have to ask, you know? Otherwise it’s like, oh, I wonder what could have happened. You know I’m… interested in biology.” Dib got a C in biology, but Zim doesn’t know that.

Zim regards him with a mixture of confusion and distaste. “I don’t care.”

Dib resists the urge to groan. “Look, Zim, either tell me yes or no.”

There’s a long silence. Then: “What would we even do?” The musing tone to Zim’s voice takes Dib off guard. “You don’t have plint, or a vogzorf. And it’s hard to imagine a cycle without yubneets…”

“I don’t know what those are, but there are a lot of things we could do. Like, I could touch you with my hand again, or I could. Lick you?” Dib winces.

“Lick me where?” Zim furrows his brow.

“You know.”

“I don’t.”

“Fine. I could lick your—what is it called? Your reproductive organs. The, uh, the outer ones. It’s a pretty popular human sex practice. I haven’t done it before, but I’m sure I could learn.”

Zim gives Dib a shrewd stare that Dib almost withers under, sure he’s going to be called out as a pervert. Then Zim says, “But your tongue is so pathetically short, and flat.” Oh boy, that’s one to ponder. Not.

“We could just see how it goes.” Dib doesn’t know why he’s pushing for this. He’s not obsessed with sex like some of his peers. Sure, he gets horny and he’s had crushes on people, but other concerns have always preoccupied him more. Why does he feel so desperate about seeing Zim naked again?

He waits, fiddling with his backpack straps, while Zim considers. He tries not to stare down the neck of Zim’s uniform. There’s nothing to even see there. What makes an extra half-inch of bare skin so fascinating? It’s not like he doesn’t routinely scrutinize or, yes, obsess over as much of Zim as the alien is willing to put on display, but it’s never been like this. Has it? He’s not sure.

Zim taps his chin. “All right,” he decides. “You may assist me.”

“Oh. Cool.” Dib’s face is on fire.

Zim nods at him and turns briskly on his heel. “This way.”

“Wait, Zim? Now?”

“When else?”

Dib can’t really argue with that.

* * *

The accessible bathroom on the third floor of the science building is not ideal. It’s out of the way, though, and it has a lock.

Zim perches on the closed toilet lid, buffered by an inch’s worth of seat protectors. He points at the floor. “Kneel.”

“But it’s gross.” Dib eyes the dubious puddles and wadded-up paper towels.

“Are you going to help Zim or not? Kneel!”

“Keep your voice down,” Dib snaps. He removes his coat first and hangs it on the door hook. No sense in getting it dirty. He tucks his glasses into the pocket. Zim has broken enough pairs.

He gets on his knees and crouches until he’s about eye-level with Zim’s hips, or would be if Zim weren’t still hugging his knees to his chest. The floor by the toilet is cold and disturbingly moist, but at least it’s not wet. He hopes it won’t stain his jeans.

He waits for a minute or so, squinting at Zim, eyebrows raised. The alien makes no move to adjust his position. He’s staring at a spot on the far wall, apparently lost in thought. From this angle, Dib can see a sliver of red under one of his contacts.

“Uh, Zim?”

“Silence!”

“But—”

“Filthy human, do not rush the great Zim. Your perverted sexual lusts will be satisfied in time.”

“You’re the one who started it,” Dib grumbles. “If you don’t want me to do this, you can just say so.” He glances at the door. “This is a bad idea anyway. We’re going to be late to fifth period.”

“No!” Zim kicks Dib in the shoulder, not hard. “Stay.”

“I’m not a dog, Zim.”

“Then why do you bark like one?” Zim is smiling now, a wide, nasty smile that has haunted more than a few of Dib’s nightmares. Dib doesn’t know what it’s making him feel now. Zim hikes up his stupid uniform and spreads his legs, pushing up his hips. “Come here.”

Despite himself, Dib finds his eyes glued to the crotch of Zim’s leggings. “You’re not going to take those off?”

“Why would I expose any part of my amazing body to this germ-ridden stink-place? Foolish Dib.” Zim clucks. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.”

“That’s not a good reason.”

“Do you want to put your revolting mouth on me or not?”

Dib feels his face flush bright red. “Fine. But you can’t just tell me to do everything.”

It’s annoying, locking his hands like that. It throws him off balance. He shuffles closer on his knees, awkward. Then he catches that scent again, and it’s like his discomfort instantly halves, dissolved in the burst of… whatever it is he feels when he’s up close and personal with Zim’s weird alien genitals. Even through leggings, apparently.

The smell is thickish and cloying, but not quite as overwhelming as before. Dib tentatively bumps his nose against the nearest part of Zim, which happens to be his hip. He sticks out his tongue, feeling silly, and—oh. Zim is shaking.

High and mighty, huh? He hides a smile against Zim’s hip, corrects it into a kiss. He plants kisses from hip to hip, increasing the duration and amount of tongue with each kiss, and moves lower. He’s getting lost in the repetition when he hears Zim make a small, soft noise.

Fuck. Okay. He can do this. His next kiss is more forceful, and he licks longer. Zim’s hips jerk. It’s kind of… he kind of likes that. His dick sure likes it. He flicks his tongue against the same place, again and again. He tries different things. Something’s happening.

The fabric of the leggings is getting soaked with his saliva, and maybe with something else. There’s a little give to it in the center, so he presses his face harder there and almost comes in his pants at the rush of scent that fills his nose. He pushes his tongue after it—_ oh god, oh god _ —and he can feel the petals twitch under the fabric, parting, making room for him. There’s this faint but apparent _ taste,_ the same as the scent but deeper, stronger, stranger. Dib is going to fucking die.

He becomes aware that Zim is squirming faster around him, emitting tiny inhuman chirps. He hears his own harsh breathing and the wet sounds of his mouth. Dib tries to pull up for air, but Zim shoves his head back down, thrusting his hips against Dib’s face erratically. Dib chokes.

He falls back coughing. “New rule, Zim. Don’t fucking suffocate me!”

“The design flaw in your stupid breathing tubes is not my fault!”

“You know, you are really not in a position to criticize human biology right now.” Dib settles back on his haunches and wipes his mouth. His tongue feels scraped raw. “Can you even get off like this?”

Zim looks at the wall again. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Have you ever done this before?” Dib groans. “Wait, what am I saying? Of course you’ve never done this before.”

“It shouldn’t be difficult. Your primitive species manages it all the time.”

Dib pinches the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m calling it. We need to try this somewhere that isn’t on school property.”

Zim has a wild expression that Dib can’t help but suspect is related to his frustrated libido. “Like where? A _ laboratory? _You won’t lure me that easily, Dib-smelly.”

“I meant your base, dipshit.” Then, more gently: “Come on. The bell’s going to ring in like a minute.”

Zim refuses Dib’s help straightening his uniform—he’s going to wear the leggings to class, he’s going to sit through fifth period with Dib’s spit drying between his thighs, _ what the fuck _—but he accepts Dib’s hand down from the toilet lid. He stumbles briefly; Dib has a momentary lapse of sanity in the form of a fantasy about scooping Zim into his arms and carrying him out the door. Which, what? He still has to put on his coat.

After they’ve stealthily entered the hallway, emerging at different times to make it seem like they haven’t been together, Dib accosts Zim. “Can I come over after school?”

“Why?” Zim begins, and then freezes. “Erm. Ah. Yes.”

“I think it’ll be much easier.” Dib can still smell him on his upper lip. “We should exchange numbers? To coordinate?”

Zim looks uncomprehending, and Dib sighs internally. “Give me your phone.”

Surprisingly, Zim hands it over. His phone is an old flip phone model that looks to be from 2005 or so. There are only three other contacts: GIR, Krazy Taco, and a string of mixed characters that is either a mistake or a code name. Dib feels strangely satisfied to add his own contact information. Zim jumps when their fingers brush as Dib’s handing it back.

“Well, see you later.”

“Right, right.” Zim waves Dib away and turns to go. He looks small, jostled in the crowd of students on their way to class. Dib stares after him for a moment before he regains his senses.

Dib is on time to Art History today, but just barely. He slips next to Gaz right as the final bell rings. She sniffs, wrinkles her nose.

“Dib? Why do you smell like old lady perfume?”

“Uh…”

“Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

* * *

There’s a problem.

“Family Night Out has been on the calendar ALL YEAR, Dib. You are not blowing us off for stupid Zim again!” Dark clouds brew around Gaz’s head.

“Hey, I showed up eventually!” Dib contends. He knows he’s lost the argument. When the swirling vortex of rage starts forming and their Dad is involved, there’s little he can assert against his sister’s will.

“Where are you going?” she shouts. He ducks in time to dodge a minor lightning strike—why is she like this?—and escapes upstairs, though not before snagging a picture of the storm with his phone.

Once safely in his room, he texts Zim the picture with the caption, _ Sorry, can’t make it tonight. Family. _

Zim responds with a string of angry emojis and a threat to sell Dib’s toenails on the black market, but there’s no heart in it. He knows he’s outclassed.

Once assured that Dib won’t ditch, Gaz returns to preparing for the night. Dib is fine with showing up in jeans and a t-shirt, but Gaz wants to look nice. It’s like she thinks Dad gives a shit. Dib listens to an entire podcast episode while she cycles through the same series of outfits and redoes her eye makeup three times. Dib applies some eyeliner of his own, for solidarity.

Dad arrives at eight on the dot, issuing orders into his work phone but ostensibly ready to transport them to Floating Kiki’s House of Pies. This time, he has an unexpected guest in tow. Gaz gasps.

“Clembrane!” In a scene that would have appalled the Gaz of six years ago, she launches herself at the clone, who lets forth a soggy howl of delight and sweeps her into his arms. Dib waits for his sister and their literal substitute father figure to finish communing before he steps forward for his own greeting ritual.

Since the resolution of the Florpus affair, Clembrane has become a distinguished food scientist in his own right. He’s been traveling the world for the past couple of years, so they haven’t seen him much. Absence apparently does make the heart grow fonder, in the Membrane siblings’ case if not in their actual parent’s.

Eventually everyone calms down and they pack into the self-driving car. Gaz chatters away about school and friends and her latest streaming campaign; Clembrane interjects with supportive noises. Dad is still busy with his call. Dib looks out the window and thinks about Zim.

Irkens don’t have families, he knows. Friendship seems unheard-of as well, or else exploitative and transactional like Zim’s interactions with Skoodge. Do Zim’s people have lasting relationships or bonds, outside of their messed-up hierarchy and the camaraderie between soldiers? Dib can’t imagine it, but he wonders.

He pictures Zim in the car with them, Zim going to dinner with Dib’s family. Maybe he’d bring GIR. Now that would be a mess. They’d all be yelling. Dib imagines the robot’s antics and Zim’s outrage, Gaz’s exasperation and his dad’s stubborn insistence that nothing is out of the ordinary. Laughter fizzes in his throat, quickly stifled when he realizes what he’s thinking about.

He wants to see Zim.

Stupid. Stupid! Zim isn’t Dib’s boyfriend or even his friend. He’s made a temporary truce with his enemy for the pursuit of scientific inquiry, nothing more. Yeah, maybe he’s horny for Zim’s weird flower pussy, but that doesn’t mean he has to be horny for Zim’s personality too.

Is there any harm in texting him, though?

Dib debates the matter until they pull into the Floating Kiki’s parking lot. The iconic revolving pie case is visible through the restaurant window. It hovers at least six feet above the ground, festooned with twinkling lights. Gingham-frocked employees climb ladders to fetch orders. Outside, the marquee lists this week’s dessert specials: Potato Cream, Quintuple Chocolate Salt N’ Vinegar, and Tamarind Upside Down Cake.

They’re ushered to a table in the back of the restaurant, in a little alcove that has likely been the site of several marriage proposals. Dib orders a bottomless cola with extra ice and sneaks his phone into his lap.

“Son.” Professor Membrane’s tone startles Dib from his perusal of the menu. “Before we get started, there’s an issue you and I need to discuss.”

Dib stares at him, deer-in-headlights. “What is it?”

“Oh, nothing much, no cause for alarm. Only your entire future.”

“Can we talk about this later? Or, like, over email?” Dib can feel his face redden. “I’d rather just enjoy dinner.”

“Do you know what the most precious commodity in the universe is?”

“Time.” Dib rolls his eyes. “Come on, Dad, we haven’t seen Clembrane in ages.”

“Exactly! No time like the present. Son, when I was your age—”

“—you were perfect, you knew exactly what you wanted and that was SCIENCE, I know, I know. Why can’t I figure things out as I go along?”

“Yeah, because you’re so good at winging it,” Gaz butts in.

“Shut up, Gaz. At least _ I’m _not planning to play video games for a living.”

The way Gaz freezes before responding alerts Dib that he’s hit a nerve. “My stream had over 5,000 viewers, dingus. That’s $500. When has your paranormal garbage ever turned a profit?”

“It’s not about the money!”

“Daughter.” All Professor Membrane’s attention is focused on Gaz. “Are you serious about this choice of career?”

Gaz freezes again and blinks twice, which would mean that anyone else was about to cry. “Look, dad, the world is different now. I’m good at gaming! Why shouldn’t I use my talents?”

“Gazlene, we have TALKED ABOUT THIS. Games are a hobby, not a lifestyle.”

“I don’t think it’s a lifestyle! If you would just come to one of my streams…”

“You know how hectic my schedule has been recently.”

“Your schedule is always hectic,” Gaz explodes. “You just don’t care! You don’t care about me at all!”

Dib’s phone is still in his lap, open with a message addressed to Zim. Though the rest of his body is petrified, rooted to his chair, he manages to type, _ My family is insane. _Then he presses send before he can think twice.

“Of course I care, daughter.” The restaurant lights glint in their dad’s goggles. “You and your brother, I care about you more than anything in the world.”

“Then maybe you should act like it!” The storm is brewing again, making the chandelier above their table rattle. The waiter who’s come to take their order cowers.

Clembrane bursts into tears.

Everyone leaps to comfort him, heedless of the drinks he spills and the vase he destroys in his sorrow. Gaz and Dad forget their quarrel. Dib stashes his phone in his pocket and hands Clembrane his napkin, not even wincing when he blows his nonexistent nose with it.

“Hey, we’re sorry. Sorry we yelled.”

“Sorry, Clembrane.”

“Sorry, my esteemed colleague.”

“I just love you all so much,” Clembrane sobs. Gaz pats him on the back, and Professor Membrane makes gruff, soothing noises. 

In Dib’s lap, his phone buzzes. He quickly taps the button on the back to dismiss the notification. When the others seem occupied, he glances down at the screen.

_ You humans are all insane, _Zim has written.

_ Yeah, but I think my family is a special case, _Dib writes back.

Zim replies almost immediately. _ You’ll find no arguments here. _

As Gaz helps Clembrane sop up his tears with the tablecloth, further dismaying the waiter, Dib finds himself smiling at his phone.

They end up ordering two rounds of pie each. Professor Membrane gets just a bite of his second slice before he’s called back to work, and the rest of them split the remainder. On the drive home, Dib hacks the radio and they sing nonsense lyrics along to Top 40 hits. As family nights out go, it isn’t the worst, not by far.

* * *

Dib arrives at school the next morning in a conspicuously good mood, breakfast of pudding notwithstanding. His mood improves further when Zim tracks _ him _down at lunch and leads him away.

“Where are we going?” he asks, breathless, jogging to keep up.

Zim’s smile is wicked, but not cruel. “You’ll see.”

* * *

The janitorial closet is dark. That’s because Zim turned out the light. It’s also cramped, and smells strongly of disinfectants. Those things, at least, are probably not Zim’s fault.

“This isn’t an improvement over the bathroom,” Dib comments.

“Shut up.” Zim pushes the mop and bucket against the door and climbs into Dib’s lap, straddling him. In the dim light, there’s a glow behind his contacts, a suggestion of his real eyes. The pinprick of his claws against Dib’s forearms raises the hair on the nape of Dib’s neck.

Dib is considering where to put his hands (at Zim’s hips? on Zim’s back? will he get his throat torn out if he dares to graze Zim’s ass, as much as Zim can be said to have one?) when Zim drags him down by the lapels of his coat and mashes their mouths together.

It’s over sooner than he’d thought. He doesn’t know why he’s disappointed. Zim’s lips are thin and dry, and the suggestion of his freaky snake tongue is more artless than deliberate.

“Blech! Disgusting!” Zim whips his head around and spits theatrically. It sounds like it lands in the bucket, which part of Dib can’t help but be impressed by.

“Why did you do that?”

“It is expected, yes? I’ve seen far too much of your television. You humans love little more than this kissing ritual, slimy, disease-spreading habit that it is.”

“If you don’t want to kiss, we don’t have to.”

“I can do anything I want.” Zim bites Dib’s lip for emphasis, wiggling a little in his lap. He’s warmish and near and really, really tense. The perfume smell is everywhere.

Dib slides a hand over his thigh and meets no barrier, feels heat radiate from what he already knows is there. Zim shivers and moves Dib’s hand closer, so it brushes at the petals. Dib isn’t made of stone, far from it. His other fingers tighten on Zim’s waist.

“Can’t you wait three hours?” Dib asks. He’s aiming for casual, but his voice cracks in the middle. Zim is wet. Like, insanely wet. The entire… channel or whatever is as lubricated as anything biologically can be, to Dib’s knowledge. He kind of wants to…

“No. There will be no more waiting. Fuck me with your stupid hand, now.”

“What?”

“_Fuck _me, you idiot!” Yikes, that was loud. Now Zim is trying his rushed, clumsy best to introduce Dib’s middle and index fingers to his insides. Okay! That’s happening!

“Do you think we should maybe,” Dib starts, and cuts himself off with a gulp when Zim finds the right angle to let Dib breach him. “Actually,” he amends, vision whiting out slightly as his fingers disappear between Zim’s legs, Zim rocking with him as he pumps them in and out, “this is fine.”

That is, of course, the moment that the janitor chooses to break in.

* * *

After Zim has pulled his leggings back on and they’ve babbled their way through the semblance of an explanation, the janitor lets them off with an ominous mutual warning. The bell rings, summoning them in separate directions.

“I guess I’ll see you tonight?” Dib asks.

“Oh, you will, Dib-thing. You will.” Zim makes it sound like a threat. Dib has to clap a hand over his own mouth to keep from cracking up until Zim is out of earshot. There’s a fluttery feeling in his chest, suspiciously akin to fondness.

* * *

Honestly, at this point, Dib should have expected it. The cryptic tip sent from a throwaway account. The mysterious coordinates, filtered through several layers of code. The screams, the chaos, the overwhelming stink of fish… _ xx_Ag3nt_M0thman_xx’_s work is never done. He crouches in the rushes by the local pond with a silver crossbow, picking off vampire trout as they transform into vampire trout-bats.

Zim shows up two hours late, dragging dog-GIR on a leash. Dib is exhausted. He’s covered in mud, blood, and scales, and he still has homework to finish. There’s no way he’s up for anything more tonight.

“What’d I miss?” Zim asks. Dib flaps a weary hand at the moon, crossed by the spiky silhouettes of the surviving trout-bats.

They stand there for a minute. The stars are coming out. It’s almost romantic, if you look at it a certain way and also ignore that GIR is eating mud.

Dib says, “So… is this what the trout detector was for?”

Zim gasps and rounds on him. “How did you know about that?”

* * *

The next morning, Zim ambushes Dib on his way between classes, drags him into a deserted corridor, and shoves his tongue down his throat. Literally. While Dib’s swallowing the remnants of that morning’s toothpaste and trying to breathe through his nose, Zim grinds desperately on his thigh, fisting his weird little hands in Dib’s trenchcoat and groaning like a perturbed seal.

“What the actual fuck, Zim?” splutters Dib, when he manages to push Zim off. Zim looks up at him with this vacant, dazed expression—eyes unfocused, wig askew—and promptly attacks him again.

"There's something seriously wrong with you," Dib tries, after Zim has quit the tentacle monster impression and turned his attention to Dib's neck. Dib is holding him up now, Zim's legs wrapped around his waist. That floral scent permeates. Zim is so absorbed in sucking Dib's pulse point purple that he doesn't react when Dib's hand brushes his PAK. Dib's other hand is pretty firmly cupping his ass, but still. It's his PAK! What the hell? Zim had practically put up a force field around the thing after Dib managed to steal it in seventh grade.

Zim pulls the neck of Dib's t-shirt aside and chomps down on the meat of his shoulder. Dib cringes and gasps into Zim's dumb scratchy wig, instantly hard as a rock. He feels Zim snicker. Bastard. Even when he's out of his mind like this, he takes pleasure in Dib's discomfort. It's just more direct this time.

Direct and straightforward, like the way Zim's moving his hips against him, faster when Dib kneads his ass. Dib's own hips strain upward, his lips parting as Zim bites kisses across his throat. He wants to...

"You're so awful," says Zim feverishly. "I hate you, you’re so horrible, you taste delicious." He’s slobbering over the bruises he made, apparently unable to stop himself from tasting more of Dib’s skin. Dib can't take it anymore. He hoists Zim up so they're at eye level, making Zim's arms go around his neck, and maneuvers Zim's back against a wall. The PAK clacks awkwardly.

Zim’s eyes are squeezed shut. Dib wants to rip him open or eat him or something; he settles for a kiss. There’s this weird, light feeling in his chest that has nothing to do with the ache in his groin, and it gets lighter when Zim’s mouth opens for him. He’s not going to think about it too hard.

They’re really getting into it again, tongues everywhere and shame all but fled, when the final bell for first period rings.

They both freeze. Zim jams his head into Dib’s armpit like he thinks he can hide his whole body there.

“We should ditch,” Dib finds himself saying. “Skip school. What do you think?”

Zim mumbles something into his chest, inaudible.

“What was that?”

“I said put me down, you stupid monkey.”

Rolling his eyes, Dib puts him down. “Well?”

“I’ll see you at my base in twenty minutes.”

“Wait, Zim—” But Zim is already halfway down the corridor.

* * *

Dib bypasses the school security guard by successfully answering one of his riddles three, which he has never actually done before. He almost takes the wrong bus home, barely makes the right bus, and runs all the way to his front door.

Clembrane, who’s staying in town for a couple of days, is passed out on the couch with his feet in a bowl of pudding. The kitchen is a mess. He’s gotten Foodio 3000 out of storage, but not bothered to reactivate him yet. Dib sticks a sticky note to Clembrane’s forehead to remind him.

Dib runs upstairs. Should he shower? He showered this morning. Maybe he should just change his clothes. What are his cleanest clothes? Oh god. He has a minor crisis over personal fragrance products, and ends up using Gaz’s deodorant.

He flosses and brushes his teeth. While gawking in the bathroom mirror, he realizes that he didn’t shave this morning. Wait, does Zim care about stubble? Zim probably cares about stubble. Time to borrow Gaz’s shaving cream. It smells like papaya.

_ I’m going to lose my virginity smelling like papaya, _Dib thinks hysterically, and nicks his chin.

He dumps out his backpack and sorts it all again. What does he need to bring? Condoms? Torque gave him some as a joke for his eighteenth birthday. At least, he thinks it was a joke. Not important right now. He finds some old ray guns or whatever and crams them in with the condoms. What if the vampire trout attack again while he’s at Zim’s? Better take the stealth gear too. Better take Gaz’s deodorant. Better take a water bottle. Great, now the zipper doesn’t work.

When he finally leaves, he’s halfway down the block before he realizes that he forgot to put shoes on.

* * *

**APPROXIMATELY THE PRESENT DAY**

So, yeah. Dib’s in trouble.

* * *

GIR opens the door just as Dib is reaching for the handle.

“Ooh! Ooh! Master! He’s here! He’s HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE!” The robot shrieks and starts running in circles, drowning out Dib’s greeting.

Zim strides into the main room. “You’re late, Dib-thing.”

“Uh.” Dib clasps his sweaty hands in front of him. “I had to shave.”

Zim mouths the word: _ shave. _He looks Dib up and down. He frowns. “Mammals. Well, you’ve kept Zim waiting long enough.”

Dib follows him to a new elevator—his body hasn’t fit into the toilet elevator since middle school—and keeps his mouth shut. His freshly brushed teeth are starting to feel sour, and he’s pretty sure he’s 50% sweat right now.

Zim, not looking at Dib, sniffs. "Is that papaya?"

"Yeah."

At last the elevator dings, and they stop. There’s a landing with a door. Dib can see tubes leading off in all directions. Zim approaches the door, opens it, gestures for Dib to come in.

The room is sparsely furnished, just a bed and a dresser. Some type of Irken vitamin drink has been provided for the occasion. Dib notes a box of oddly shaped contraptions.

“What are those?”

“Ehn.” Zim gestures dismissively. “I tried... devices for self-stimulation, to see if I could ride the heat out on my own. They failed, obviously. Useless trash.”

Dib’s mouth goes dry. “You should, uh. You should show me how those work sometime.” He tries and fails not to picture Zim testing the devices. It’s not an unappealing picture.

“Hmm.” Zim’s smirk is coy. “Maybe.”

He toes off his boots, pops off his contacts, and starts removing his wig. Dib watches, fascinated, as his antennae emerge. They’re so expressive, and he laments how much information he must miss out on when Zim has to wear the wig.

“Are these sensitive?” Dib’s hand hovers over an antenna. Up close, it looks softly textured, like young antlers or lamb’s-ear or the loopy part of velcro. He’d expected it to be more… plastic. He really, really wants to touch it.

“More or less. It depends how you handle them.” Zim catches Dib’s hand before he can try. “They’re very delicate, so don’t _ grab, _pig-smelly.”

“I just wanted to feel,” Dib protests. “Come on, you know I can be gentle.”

Zim’s pointed look recalls the bruises Dib gave him not two hours ago. Dib blushes.

“Um. Why don’t you direct me?”

Zim’s look is still warning, but he takes Dib’s hand and curls his limp fingers around the base of one antenna. Dib holds his breath as Zim guides his grip upwards.

“Like this.” Zim’s voice is soft. The stalk of the antenna is rigid inside its coating, furrier and more flexible at the tip. It vibrates subtly with movement, issuing a just-perceptible sound. Zim closes his eyes when Dib brushes the bend at the top, and Dib is momentarily struck speechless with the urge to kiss him.

Instead, he strokes Zim’s antenna again, careful and slow. Zim gives a tiny sigh and leans into his hand. Emboldened, Dib strokes the antenna a third time, and brings his other hand to the other antenna. With a sudden hunch, he strokes both antennae in tandem.

Zim shivers, curling towards him. The sound gets more perceptible, like the far-off noise of the ocean or a very quiet cicada. Something about the moment feels weirdly breakable. Dib holds his breath again and runs his thumbs over the tips, feeling every millimeter of contact.

Zim exhales on a sob and pushes him away. “Enough.”

“Was that okay?”

“I said enough.” Zim’s eyes glitter. Dib hardly has a second of warning before Zim is on him, leaping into his arms and trying to suck his soul out through his mouth. He’s making that clicking noise again, like he had the first time Dib found him in his base. Was that this week? Wow. Dib slips his hands up Zim’s uniform tunic, enjoying the smooth glide of his skin.

Zim breaks the kiss and starts plucking impatiently at their clothing, ripping it. There goes Dib’s cleanest t-shirt. Dib helps Zim out of his uniform and starts working on his leggings. Zim tries to unbutton Dib’s jeans with his feet, and succeeds in getting the zipper halfway down before Dib’s half-hard dick impedes his progress.

“I want to see this,” Zim announces, massaging Dib’s boxer-clad dick with one foot.

_ Don’t get a foot kink, _Dib begs himself internally. “You can. Just give me a minute.”

Zim hops down. Dib wrestles his way out of his remaining clothing, conscious of Zim’s eyes on him. Once naked, he can’t look down at himself, but he can look at Zim.

“I know it’s kind of ugly.” Dib gives a self-deprecating laugh.

Zim doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s hideous. You should fuck me with it.”

“I, uh.” Dib wipes his palms on his thighs. “Sounds good. So do you want to do this on the bed, or…?”

Suddenly, a thought occurs to him. “Wait! We need condoms. For protection.”

“Protection from what?” Zim sheds his leggings.

If Dib says _ germs, _Zim will freak. “Pregnancy? I guess? I don’t know. I don’t think that STDs would be a thing but you never know. Like, you’re an alien to me, and I’m a… different kind of alien to you, and even though things have been okay so far we don’t know if, uh, something might be wrong with our biochemistry—”

“Computer,” Zim begins imperiously, and Dib practically shouts.

“No! PLEASE don’t ask the computer. He judges me.” Dib keeps his voice to a loud whisper, though he’s certain the computer can hear him and is probably mocking him right this instant.

“Dib-human, you are being ridiculous.” Zim wears an expression that Dib has come to know as his patient face. “I have access to medical technology whose like you have never dreamed. If something goes wrong, I can fix it. Okay?”

“He’s right,” the computer chimes in. “And I do.”

“Oh my god. Okay.” Dib covers his face. He decides not to say anything about the heat, or how Zim’s vaunted technology is apparently no help there.

They end up getting on the bed. Embarrassment has cooled Dib’s ardor somewhat, but the flame is fast relit by Zim’s proximity and nakedness. They’re soon kissing with increasing desperation. He wants to touch every part of Zim at the same time, but he’s impatient too, ready to get to the scary part. The flower smell suffuses the air. In a moment of courage, Dib reaches between Zim’s legs.

He takes a sharp breath. “God, Zim. You’re soaked.”

Zim moans, rocking down on his fingers. Dib probes more deeply. He feels the slickness, the heat, and the pollen, sticky-sweet. He kind of… yeah, he definitely wants to stick his dick in there. More than that, though, he wants to watch Zim come.

He rubs his dick against Zim’s thigh. “You want me to fuck you with this?”

Zim cringes, and a light wave of fluid gushes over Dib’s fingers. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, human.”

Dib fingers him more roughly for that, smiling at the way Zim’s face opens. “I guess I have my marching orders, then.”

“Shut up.”

It’s awkward at first. Zim is too eager; Dib is afraid to hurt him; the petals, which may or may not be called yubneets, are not jazzed about letting a weird alien dick between them. Eventually, though, Dib is fully seated inside Zim.

He moves, experimentally. Zim is still for the first few thrusts, then starts moving with him. It’s slow, slow… Dib shifts his weight to avoid a cramp and hits something inside Zim that makes him cry out.

“Good?” Dib asks, and Zim snaps, “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Zim—”

“Fuck me, come on, hurry up, do it.” Zim is twisting his hips, frantic in a way that really shouldn’t be sexy.

Dib pulls back hard, slides in, pulls back out and thrusts again...

...and embarrasses himself immediately. He barely gets a warning before he comes, the combination of wet heat pulsing around his dick and Zim’s strident demands to be fucked bashing him over the head with an orgasm.

“Was that it?” Zim questions, while Dib pants against Zim’s skin and tries to recollect himself.

The yubneets or whatever don’t want to let him go. He guides his softening dick out slowly, hissing between his teeth. Zim’s rising irritation is palpable.

“Just give me a second,” says Dib. Zim glowers at him, the overhead light reflected in his eyes like a kaleidoscope, and Dib recalls that the alien has been edged repeatedly for days.

“You felt too good, I’m sorry,” he soothes, running a hand up Zim’s flank. Zim shivers or bristles, but he doesn’t shy away from the contact. “Here, let me, um. Can you scoot over this way?”

Dib steers Zim around so his legs are dangling off the side of the bed. He kneels on the floor, smiling at Zim’s small intake of breath, even though his head is still swimming.

He reaches for Zim’s hips, hoping to keep some leverage, and finds Zim reaching back for him. Their hands clasp together. Barbs tickle Dib’s cheek. Beneath the smothering scent of pollen, he can smell his own come. He opens his mouth, presses forward, and is pulled under.

As Zim’s knees hook over Dib’s shoulders, caging Dib’s head between his thighs, Dib realizes he was wrong before. He hadn’t been in trouble yet. He’s in trouble now.

* * *

Well!

That happened.

Dib thought the afterglow was a myth, but it is not. He feels giggly and exhausted, light-headed and sticky. Though he’ll need to eat soon, right now he’s just enjoying the moment. He stretches, careful not to jostle Zim, who’s curled at his side in a credible imitation of a housecat. Zim’s hogging the blankets. Typical.

Dib can hear machines whirring in other parts of the base, GIR watching TV somewhere above. The room smells strongly of pollen, but softer than before, less overwhelming—or else he’s gotten used to it, having it all over his skin. The scene feels peaceful. If he closed his eyes, he could fall asleep.

“Dib-human.” Zim’s voice is hoarse and quiet, a logical outcome from the amount of screaming he’s recently done. Fuck, this is awesome. Who knew that all it took to shut Zim up was to make him come eight times in a row? Now that Dib knows, he’ll never be able to forget. The last one, Zim had been so vocal but so sweet about it, almost shy. Dib can still feel the petals/yubneets clenching around his knuckles.

“What is it?” Dib presses against him, grinning like an idiot. “Do you want my mouth again? Or, I don’t think I can get it up after all that, but we could see how many fingers I can fit in your—”

“I no longer require your assistance.” Zim’s flat tone knocks the smile from Dib’s face.

“Uh. Huh?”

“I have exited the heat successfully. There is no need for you to remain in my base.”

“But I thought,” Dib starts, and stops. “You’re sure? It’s over?”

“Yes.” Zim hops off the bed and collects his discarded clothing. Back to Dib, he begins to dress. Dib watches the deceptively frail curve of his spine as he pulls on his leggings and uniform tunic.

“Did I do something wrong? Zim?”

“Your performance was adequate. Your cooperation has been noted and logged.” Zim crosses the room to retrieve his contacts and wig.

Dib sits up in bed, drawing the blankets around himself. “What’s going on? Do you want me to leave?”

“What I want is immaterial. Why would you even ask that?” Zim whirls around, contacts in place and wig awry. His gloved hands are balled into fists. “But yes, you should leave. Immediately.”

“Okay.” Dib is not going to cry. It’s just hormones. Chemicals. He feels cold because he’s naked. He should change that.

Sweat sticks his dirty clothes to over-sensitive skin. He pulls on underwear and clammy socks, struggles into his jeans, fumbles through lacing up his boots. Zim busies himself with a handheld monitor. In the background, GIR screeches along with a sitcom laugh track.

“Can I at least get a kiss goodbye?” Dib asks, once fully dressed.

Zim scoffs. “No.”

“I guess I’ll get going, then.” Dib slings his backpack over one shoulder, adjusting the strap so it doesn’t press on a bite mark. “You know, you could say thanks or something.”

“What does Zim have to thank you for, human?” Zim won’t meet his eyes. “The experience was repulsive. I hope to never speak of it again.”

“It sure seemed like you liked it,” Dib says bitterly.

“It. Was. _ Disgusting.” _ The barely contained rage in Zim’s bearing takes Dib aback. “Now, I have much work to do. Leave my base, or suffer my wrath.”

“Your pillow talk fucking sucks, Zim,” Dib snipes, but he’s moving for the door. He isn’t going to stick around for any more of this.

Though the computer is blessedly silent, a capsule waits to take Dib up. He shuts his eyes as they ascend, his head going dizzy with the rush.

He stumbles through the kitchen, the living room, past GIR’s exclamation of “Mary!” and out the front door. It’s become evening somehow, the shadows long and inky and the crickets already singing. The lingering smell of pollen makes Dib’s stomach flip.

A lawn gnome shoots him in the butt on his way out.

* * *

The sun sets. By the time Dib gets home, the first stars are coming out. He goes straight to bed, where he lies on top of the covers with his boots on. His stomach grumbles, but he doesn’t feel like eating. The glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling blur in his vision.

Dib presses on the bites and bruises Zim gave him: neck, chest, hips (his heart lurches), the inside of his thigh. He used to do this after their fights sometimes, mostly back in middle school. It reminded him that Zim was real, so aliens were real, so his life had meaning after all. Things were a lot simpler then.

_ That was my first time. _ He digs harder into the mark on his thigh, tracing the faint stamp of Zim’s teeth. _ I lost my virginity to an alien. _This should be a lot cooler than it feels.

Dib closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything. Eventually, he falls asleep.

* * *

The first tinny, video-captured words out of Professor Membrane’s mouth the next morning are, “Son, I’m disappointed in you.” Apparently the school truancy line starts its bot calls pretty early. Dib doesn’t care, even when he learns he’s grounded. He has other preoccupations.

His mind is still racing. Not twelve hours ago he was _ with _ Zim, in the most intimate way he’s ever been with anyone, and Zim had been into it, he _ knew _he’d been into it, and now Dib is getting thrown to the side like he always does. It’s not fair. But he can’t do anything about it.

The next day, he feels like he’s moving underwater. Gaz's barbs can't pierce him. Clembrane leaves and he doesn't care. He aces a math quiz, helps Gretchen finalize a plan to investigate her basement ghost, and even manages to intimidate the registrar into fixing his grades. The only thing he can think about is Zim.

* * *

If Zim is trying to drive him crazy, then it’s working. Dib’s going to lose it, any day now.

Zim won’t look at him. Zim avoids him. Zim responds to Dib when spoken to, but only when other people are around. Zim has bruises peeking out from the collar of his uniform. Dib sees them, and Zim knows he sees them, and Zim still won’t look at him. Dib wants to burn the world down.

* * *

Summer is only a month away. There’s a heat wave predicted for the end of the week, another for the weekend after that. The clouds thin, the sun beats down, the mud dries up. The weeds that grew thick and tall around the edges of the sports fields, sheltered in the shade by the fence, have finally been reaped by the lawn mower. It’s a metaphor or something. 

Dib hoards energy drinks and stays up too late on the internet. For no reason other than a vague self-destructive impulse, he starts arguments that get all his TruthShrieker accounts banned. In his room alone at three a.m., squinting in the light from his laptop while he scrolls through a collection of video essays about the Flatwoods Monster, he almost feels normal. Minus the crushing pain in his chest, that is.

It’s cool. He’ll get over it. He got along fine without Zim for eleven years, and he’s been foiling the idiot’s plans for seven more. A week is nothing in the scheme of things. Dib can handle this. He can.

* * *

Dib can’t handle this.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gaz hisses to Dib in Art History, while he methodically folds, tears, and shreds a notebook page into tiny strips. “There’s been a bug up your ass all week. Did something happen with Zim?”

“Get out of my face, Gaz.” 

“I’m serious. You need to tell me what’s up. You didn’t even budge when what’s-his-face called about the chupacabra sighting.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Dib tears off another piece of paper.

Gaz rolls her eyes. “Whatever. If you don’t talk to me, talk to someone. You seem like you’re about to snap.”

At the whiteboard, Miss Pingle accidentally writes _ there _ instead of _ their_, and breaks her dry-erase marker in half with a cry of rage.

* * *

The snapping point arrives that Thursday. Zim is sent to Dib’s Geography class as a messenger, accompanied by Keef. Zim is letting Keef talk to him, seems to be _ listening. _Dib notes with a hollow feeling that the bruises on Zim’s neck are near entirely faded.

Ms. Bitters accepts their message and waves them away. Keef tries to link arms with Zim. Zim leans to avoid him, then looks at Dib, then lets a beaming Keef take his arm.

In three weeks, they’ll graduate. Everyone will go their own way. No matter what Dib decides to do with his life, he might never see Zim again.

“Wait, Zim,” Dib says. “Don’t go yet. I have something to say to you.” 

Keef smiles uncertainly, turning to look at Dib.

“Raise your hand before talking,” snarls Ms. Bitters.

Dib raises his hand and keeps talking, without permission. “I just have to say: I know what you are, Zim, and I’m going to expose you. Just you wait. Your schemes can’t stay hidden forever.”

As he thinks aloud, a stomach-churning idea occurs to him. “Speaking of schemes. Was I a test run? Is that your new plan to drive the population of Earth insane?”

He knows his voice is too loud, but he can’t contain it. The idea of another person’s hands on Zim—of Zim _ wanting _someone else to touch him, welcoming it—makes his blood boil. His stupid precious feelings bubble in his throat. Words come blistering out of him like steam.

“Great plan, Zim. A real success. I bet your stupid leaders would be really proud of you, if they even still cared that you exist.”

How could he have been so blind? Zim never wanted him. Dib was convenient, gullible, a joke. Zim’s probably been laughing his ass off over this, his great victory over his nemesis. But Dib’s not even good enough to be a nemesis now, is he? He’s just a pathetic, jilted virgin with a xenophilia complex.

Part of Dib feels like breaking down on the floor, but the other part is pure, liquid anger. He hardly notices that he’s chosen to climb on his desk, or that the entire class is gaping at him.

He points at Zim. “I’m onto you, Zim. Someday the world will know what I do, and when they do? They’ll hunt you. They’ll kill you. YOU’LL DIE. And I’ll be there to watch it all.” Hot tears drip off his chin, running under his shirt. He doesn’t know when he started crying.

Zim stares at him, shuddering with fear. Good. But Gretchen is watching him too, and Dib recognizes with a pang that the expression in her eyes is also fear. She’s never been afraid of him before.

Slowly, she raises her hand. Her lip trembles, but her jaw is set.

Too late, Dib realizes what she’s going to do. “Gretchen, wait—”

“Ms. Bitters,” says Gretchen, now refusing to look at Dib. “Can I use a Crazy Card?”

* * *

**APPROXIMATELY TWO WEEKS LATER**

Dib’s second and final stay at the Crazy House For Boys is cut short when his case coordinator confirms that he’s actually eighteen years old. He’s whisked out in a straitjacket, veins pumped full of sedatives. On his way out, the nurses are still shoving waivers in his face in the hospital’s attempt to avoid a lawsuit. They shouldn’t bother; his dad’s on a business trip and won’t be back in town until Dib’s graduation.

Dib convalesces at home, attended by the reactivated Foodio 3000. He has webcam appointments with an impressively credentialed therapist and many new psychiatric drugs. He’s supposed to attend school for the last week, though he’s not in a hurry to go back.

On a weekday morning a few days after his release, Dib is watching reruns on the couch while Foodio 3000 tests an edible flatware recipe in the kitchen. Then the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” Dib calls. Foodio 3000 tends to freak out around strangers, and Dib’s not keen on a replay of the pot-throwing incident.

He goes to answer, half sure it’s Gretchen. She’s stopped by a couple of times since he got back from the hospital. The other day, she dropped off a packet of make-up work and a Get Well Soon card while he was napping.

He doesn’t want to see her. He’s not sure he can forgive her. But Gaz ranted at him for an hour yesterday about not doing anything else to alienate his sole remaining friend, and he’s pretty sure she’ll hear about it if he blows Gretchen off.

It’s not Gretchen. It’s some guy in a delivery uniform, looking half-asleep. Dib opens the door just as the guy is reaching for the doorbell again.

The guy says, “Hi. Is there a Dib here?” He pronounces it _ Dye-buh._

Dib doesn’t bother to correct him. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Great. Sign.” The guy shoves a tablet in Dib’s face.

Dib takes it, grimacing as he notes the smudges. But he signs—with his finger, ew—and accepts the envelope that the guy tosses at him before leaving. There’s no name or message on the enclosed card, only a crudely drawn heart.

Dib wheels the flower arrangement inside the house, to Foodio 3000’s oohs and ahhs. The thing is enormous, overflowing its container. It’s clearly a custom order, but by no means a tasteful one. It looks like someone just requested every flower in the shop.

He turns the arrangement around so he can see it all. Everything’s crammed in there: roses, peonies, chrysanthemums, orchids, gladiolus, some kind of filler flower that looks like miniature bells, other stuff that Dib has never seen or heard of. He’s kind of neutrally observing the tableau—did Gretchen send it? Would she go this far?—when his eyes snag on something.

It’s a patch of lilies, in several varieties. Some have a conical, funnel-like bloom in a purple so deep it’s nearly black, with a thick gray stamen that resembles miniature corn. Some are small and star-shaped, pink-blushed white with brown anthers; others are larger and trumpet-shaped, their petals a deep, freckled red. It's all plush flowers, glossy leaves. The display invites touch and warns it away in one moment.

What gets him is the smell. At first he thinks he’s hallucinating. As he bends his head closer, though, the likeness becomes too clear to ignore. It’s delicate, wistful, haunting. It’s raising the hair on his arms. Goddamn son of a bitch air freshener ass motherfucker.

“_ZIM!” _

Dib’s scream results in no fewer than five separate noise complaints.


End file.
